


Discolouration

by aPaperCupCut



Series: misc uncompleted fics [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Religion, Religious Guilt, boom elves have super long awesome ears now ok, early solas/oc but this isnt being continued, heavy purple prose, lots and lots of headcannons and personal worldbuildings, the chantry gives me big christianity vibes and thus - religious guilt, uncompleted one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: They came to Skyhold, to the Inquisition, firstly as a way to pay tithes to the Herald. To grovel upon her doorstep, and to receive penance for the sins they've committed - that they continue to commit. Andraste, bless her lovely visage, visited them many a time in their dreams; whispered, now you must go, and serve, for what use are you if you do not? And so they went.What greeted them upon the Herald’s doorstep was unlike anything they could have ever expected.





	Discolouration

**Author's Note:**

> no plans to continue this one, sorry. otherwise this wouldve been much, much longer. but it was a real joy to write, and it was easy to slip into the characters perspective.
> 
> just in case, if people care enough abt this one, ill continue it. after all, its almost a self insert. itd be fun to continue (and it would help feed my crush on solas. solas is a terrible idiot btw, just needed to say it)

His presence - it is something hiding itself, proud and regal, trying to tuck itself under a veneer of disdain, of disregard.

They are speaking, of course, of Serah Solas, one of the mages of the Inquisition. In fact, they are specifically speaking of the man they serve meals to most often, of the man who's rooms they tidy whilst he is out with the Herald, fighting and negotiating and all that important business. They never expected to be in this position; hells, they never expected anything like  _ this _ when they left home.

But they are so incredibly happy they have this.

The work is tough and tiring - but all work is that way, isn't it? They are glad to have food in their belly and privacy in their quarters. It is all they have ever asked for, even if their eyes flicker occasionally to the trees on the surrounding mountains, even if they sometimes stare too long upon Serah Solas’ beautiful murals. They do not dare touch the paint, even if something hidden inside them desires to freshen the colours.

Maker guide them; they are happy with what they have. They can have nothing more.

But Serah Solas…

The way they feel in his presence, as he dismisses them to their busywork, as he continues reading his thick scripts and writes with a delicate hand - and the way the sun falls on his ears, long in a way they've never seen on another elf before… Serah Solas makes their fingers light up with a strange sensation, and they long to leave that very moment ( _ with his eyelashes still directed downward, not looking upon them, not even seeing them, not even knowing them, thick and dark against his pale, sharp cheekbones _ ), leave thusly into the empty wood, the only sounds around them and among them the sounds of earth and bird and beast, breathing and  _ living. _

He makes their ears wont to pivot, in a way that earned many smacks and scolds from their mama and matron. They feel a shame at the impulse, and always they rush to fulfill their duties, not allowing their eyes to drift to him overlong. For if they lingered, they might not ever leave the Serah’s unearthly abode; worse, they might leave the only comfortable life they've ever known.

.

They came to Skyhold, to the Inquisition, firstly as a way to pay tithes to the Herald. To grovel upon her doorstep, and to receive penance for the sins they've committed - that they continue to commit. Andraste, bless her lovely visage, visited them many a time in their dreams; whispered,  _ now you must go, and serve, for what use are you if you do not? _ And so they went.

What greeted them upon the Herald’s doorstep was unlike anything they could have ever expected.

Tents, full of migrants and refugees, piled round the entryway; a whole cloth town, before they ever entered Skyhold. The Inquisition and its promises have convinced many to pick up what little they have and tough the frozen mountains just to reach what is almost certainly a safe haven. Funny, that this new Inquisition should be born from Haven, and thusly become a haven itself.

They had picked their way carefully through, unsure if they'd ever manage to actually see the Herald, unsure if they'd simply be turned away; surely such a blessed being would instantly see the filth they bore upon their soul. Something inside them trembled at the thought; they might've hiccuped, a tear running down their cheek, ‘fore they minded themself and cleaned their face.

The doors themselves were iron heavy, great and large and intimidating. They were stopped in fear; it shook them, and they only barely withheld the urge to whimper. No, no, there was not a chance in all the hells that they might be forgiven. Nothing that built such strength into stone would ever deign to look upon them; nay, no holy thing that resided in walls such as these could ever abide the stench they must have brought. They felt ready to bolt, ready to abandon their wild brained desires, seek atonement from their Sisters and from their family back in Rose-Sire, the small town from whence they came. They could not bring themself to take one more stained footstep into a most assuredly Divine house.

But then a call came upon their ears; at first, they could not discern quite what it was, so embroiled in thought as they were. But then it came louder, called in a ringing, clear tone, and they took many startled steps to the side, as the sound of horse hooves sloshing through the snow reached their pent back ears.

“The Inquisitor! The Inquisitor, she returns!”

The shout came from a youth, not more than fifteen summers old. His hair was as a torch; guiding the procession of people atop sturdy, healthy steeds forward. They were all well armoured; all uniformed. Was one of them truly the Herald? They found themself trembling once more, and their heart began to painfully race as they realized the position they were in.

Right up front; right in front of the doors, only just to the side, so they might not be quashed beneath careless hooves. But what would come, being so close to those who held such power? They were exposed, vulnerable, struck frozen as the group approached.

There were several people in the lead, just behind the orange haired boy. A very large, bearded man; a ginger chested dwarf; and two others.

The first was almost nondescript; hidden was she, beneath layers of cloth and steel. Her dark hair cut a ribbon, curls sprouting from openings in her scarves. Her face was cast in shadow; they knew her instantaneously as the Herald, Most Holy, Chosen of Andraste, Leader in the Dark Times. They felt copper in their mouth, but their eyes were snagged as a fly in honey ‘fore they could even think of a plan.

Behind her, the honey: a strange, delicate tower of a man; ears long, grown whisper thin by the ends, like lines of gold sunlight when the world becomes dark under heavy storm clouds. His focus was elsewhere, elsewhen; he knew what was around him, amongst him, yet he did not show an inch of care. He hid under humble clothing; dusky, well worn, hood draped o’er his skull so as to disperse attention. But his eyes…

Sharp and alit with something they could not name; they were filled to overflowing, with some bizarre emotion, confusion and questions made of nothing-answers filling their vision. Nothing could be believed, if this feeling was named; it brought to mind of their travels alone, of animals and beasts alike wandering behind them, ready for the first falter in their step. They breathed in frost and exhaled dust; such was the indescribable, entropic water in his gaze. Water, not honey; but the fly still drowned.

“Madame? Madame, are you faint?”

The flame haired boy - youth of only fifteen. He held their hand in his, and they felt the calming press of fingers to their brow, and they flinched when they realized their position, lain flat upon the stone ground.

Directly before the Herald; directly before the deep and dark death of water.  _ Calm waters hide such turbulence, _ they thought, and fainted.

.

Embarrassment is a beat of sound, a rhythm of tune in their life that they can never shake. It was there when they received their first lashing in front of the other girls; it was there when they learned the truth of their sins, their lies. It was there when they woke from a slumber induced by forgoing food that morn. It was a relief to wake on their lonesome; it was a humiliating one, to be sure, but a relief nonetheless.

It at least insured that they gained entry into Skyhold, and then work, and then hospitality. Not one person who entered the great halls got away with freeloading; as soon as they freshened themself from their faint, they were seen to by one of the heads of staff; from there, they received training in servitude.

They have not spoken once since arriving; they fear their tongue too much. It is a relief, as well, that no response is necessary from them, for any of their duties. Just a nod or a shake of the head is enough, and they sink into the nonverbal habits their mama took so long to coach them out of so many years ago like they were greeting an old friend.

They pray to the Maker every day. While they never asked for forgiveness, they no longer are visited by Andraste and her lovely, haunting voice. Something about Skyhold really is like a safe haven; where they are too busy to think, to ponder, where they are fed and watered without a single accusing glance thrown their way. Yes, they are happy.

They only wish they were not to be one of the sole servants to Serah Solas.

That is his name:  _ Solas. _ Nothing more, nothing less. No sire name for he seems without blood ties; no title, for he is without equal in nature - not entirely Circle mage, not entirely the average apostate. ( _ They wonder if he's lonely, like that. _ ) No, they listened and know that not one person in Skyhold truly knows who the man is; only that he appeared from nowhere to help with the dealing of the Breach, and how the Inquisitor encouraged him to stay, to lend his specific knowledge and prowess to the rest of the Inquisition’s forces. And stay he had; thusly, he required a group of servants.

They were assigned to him quickly, and, as they learned later, it was mostly as a test, not as a permanent position. When they were first sent up to Serah Solas’ quarters, to serve him breakfast, he did not give them a single ounce of attention. They had watched, with careful eyes, slow and steady with the dishes as they placed the serving tray upon his desk, as he unfolded himself from the small corner he had drawn himself up in; as he withdrew, dawn light colouring him so pale that he ought to have been a shade instead of an elf, they saw the small white deer painted in that corner, details making it appear to be jumping, prancing, coat rippling. They had jerked their head away, prayed that he hadn't noticed their inattention - and he hadn't. Serah Solas had draped his lithe form over the settee, paying no mind to their distraction. He motioned, with one, regal hand, and they unplated the dishes.

As they left with the empty platter, they found themself going over the details in their mind; running the silence smooth with the twist of their conscious.

The way he walks - the way he gestures, expression imperialistic - they can understand why no one believes him to be a simple apostate. No apostate is that comfortable amongst others; while he has the smallest of tics that they realize are recognizable only for the sight they see in the mirror each morn ( _ darkness and light, seen through only their eyes; no mortal being kin to them nearby, not for many miles _ ), he has no great fear of the mass of people he lives beside. They have met many an apostate, those who sought holy forgiveness or simply peace from violent Templars. Not one bore the almost physical presence of others well; they were too well suited for life on their lonesome, defending from errant animals and aggressive others only, traveling from place to place.

That was how they knew he was no ordinary apostate. Most certainly not a Circle mage; but then, they have no fear either way. A mage is a mage; they would kill you, or they would not.

It seemed as though the entire kitchen staff was shocked to see them when they entered, bearing no food and with no discomfort writ upon their features. They crowded around them, all at once, and they shrunk into themself; heart hammering, hands shaking, but their eyes remained open and they  _ listened. _

Not many abided him, they found. At first, they thought it strange;  _ why, _ they wondered, during noon prayer,  _ what could push the others away from an enigma like that? _ After all, most household servants ran a very intensive gossip network; but Serah Solas is absent, unmentioned except for the spattering of glances sent towards his section of the fortress.

They did not learn why so many avoided him very quickly; whilst not slow to pick things up, they had no strong inclination to. But they noticed the little things, that slowly grew into larger things.

**Author's Note:**

> no nice formatting for u


End file.
